


There's No Such Thing As Over

by Ducks_Go_Eyup



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Interesting NPCs
Genre: Domestic, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), F/M, Interesting NPCs Mod, Marriage, Minor Violence, Reference to Torture, Skyrim Civil War, Windhelm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:25:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks_Go_Eyup/pseuds/Ducks_Go_Eyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'Back to back they stood, towering over their assailants; their golden skin was illuminated by the flickering light of the flames her Mother had readied in her hands, a light that contorted their faces into shadowy expressions of anger...What scared her most wasn't that assassins had slipped into her home, but that she had never seen her parents look so alive, so disturbingly happy.'</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ten years have passed  since the Civil War, since the Dovahkiin attempted to settle down with her family in a city where many want her dead. But an adventurer never truly retires, and the Gods themselves conspire to throw her life into disarray.</p><p>A story of opposites, and a relationship built on a pile of corpses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Through the Eyes of a Child

Mother had always instilled in her the importance of knowing her history.

She knew that after the civil war, her Mother and Papa moved to Windhelm. And she knew that even though that was ten years past, that the anger and resentment towards her parents still ran deep, no matter how courteous they acted towards their little family. They tried to hide it from her, her parents and the Nords both, but she knew that they would never be truly welcomed by the likes of the permanently drunk Rolff and the frightening beggar Angrenor, who she always made sure to give a coin to, and no more. They hated Mother the most. Mother was the Dragonborn after all, and although she may be a High Elf by birth, she was blessed with the innate understanding of the greatest of Nordic arts- the Thu'um- Surely she would side with Ulfric, a true hero of Skyrim? But no, in their eyes she had betrayed them and their land to the Imperials and the Thalmor. (They said that she was one of them; she thought that was stupid, she had seen some Thalmor when she was littler, and even her Mother wasn't that bad).

She learnt all this as she played hide and seek with her Papa in the market, she heard them whisper and sneer.

 _'You heard about those things in Winterhold, yes? Of course that was all her-'_  
_'The only reason she killed Alduin was for a little more power, you know? Never trust an elf, and never trust a mage-'_  
_'...Surprised she spread her legs for him at all, the mares as frigid as the Sea of Ghosts...'_  
_'...Hope their get takes after him, he's a decent enough sort for an elf.'_

She was _very_ good at hide and seek.

She couldn't say that she blamed them for not liking Mother. She was admittedly pretty in the elven way, with her sharp features, copper hair, and burning eyes that seemed to crackle with life on the rare occasions that she showed any form of passion. But her looks were where her virtues ended; more often than not she was as cold and hard as the continent that she had called home for so many years. The woman spent more time with her books than with her family, her hands were always stained black with ink from her slightly frenzied style of note taking, and half the time she wore an exhausted expression from what she assumed were the late hours of reading by the flickering light of a few candles.

No, no, she much preferred Papa. The way he sweetened her milk with honey and a pinch of what he would only call magic. The way he always cheated in their little tickle brawls by throwing up his ward because he was too busy laughing to tell her to stop. But most of all, she loved the way he told her stories, and how he insisted that they were all true, no matter how ridiculous they sounded.

 _'I've told you about Ontaro, haven't I?'_  
_'I know you know about the time your Mother went to Sovngarde, but do you know what I was doing whilst she saved the world?'_  
_'So then the Forsworn took Maven by the hand and started serenading her...'_

Her favourite by far was the story of how he and Mother met. How he was certain that she was a Thalmor agent because of how stiffly she held herself (he had used far more colourful language the first time) and that she refused to crack even the slightest smiles at his jokes (there, as well, she was told not to repeat half of the phrases her Papa used). She had only asked for his company because her old companion had just been murdered by bandits. He always waxed about how annoying Mother found him, but never how they ended up married.

(She broke into Mother's desk that night and read her old diaries; the old companion was a stray dog that she adopted during her college days to annoy the other apprentices. She had found that Papa was even better at that than the dog.)

If she didn't know any better, she would say that love was a foreign concept to her. After she was told of a particular Daedra and its servant, Septimus Signus, she had said that her Mother resembled Hermaeus Mora more than Mara, a harmless little quip that set her Papa laughing fit to tears. Mother heard the commotion, and when asked to repeat what she said, she gave him the queerest of side smiles.

_'Though I am comparable to many things, a swirling void of tentacles is not one of them.'_

Papa dried his eyes and began to retort, but the alarmed glance that she cast was enough to tell their daughter that whatever he was about to say was far from appropriate for her delicate pointed ears. It was one of those rare moments where she allowed herself to wonder if this was how normal parents talked to one another, if this was how a normal family acted.

Surely, if she was part of a normal family, then she would view her Mother as a mother, instead of a particularly strict teacher she just happened to be related to. Admittedly, some of the lessons she did enjoy. Mother always praised her natural talent for alchemy; when word reached Quintus she and Papa always found themselves with first choice of his merchandise, just as long as they listened to him ramble on about his old masters work, what he was correct about and what he was certain he had misinterpreted because, _surely_ , his master could never have been wrong. It was worth it for her Papa's impersonations alone. She loved the mess she could make when she was brewing, squeezing the juices out of over ripe Juniper berries and slicing flower petals into pieces as fine and delicate as the snow that never seemed to stop. But the best part was that if Mother approved of what she had made, then she would clean up whilst her daughter ran off to play.

Where she excelled at alchemy though, she failed miserably at spellwork. Often, afternoons would be dedicated to a different school of magic- she could endure the theory work (barely), but when it came to practise... she had tried to heal a bird with a broken wing, and only succeeded in making it lose its feathers; her wards were tangible, but shattered at the slightest touch. She was best at Destruction magic, but that wasn't saying much. She could kindle a flame, but the bubbling and writhing she felt under her skin meant that it would only last for a second, and yes, she could summon a light sprinkle of snow, but it wasn't worth the stabbing sensation that wracked her hands every time she tried. She had no idea why her mother was so insistent on her learning magic, nor why she always looked so shaken at the end of their lessons.

She asked Papa, and he told her the story of an elf who wanted to be the greatest mage in all of Tamriel, because the evil Thalmor had taken away all her friends in Alinor with no magical talent, never to be seen again. She had far more alchemy lessons after that.

Despite it all, there was an odd kind of rhythm to her family's life. Asides from the times their housecarl, Calder, became a minder whenever her parents were called away for one reason or another (she heard Mother complain that people thought they were mercenaries; Papa retorted that there wasn't much distinction between adventurers and mercenaries- they both ended up being paid for terrible jobs no-one else wanted them to do), although those occasions grew rarer and rarer as time went on. Once Mother was called upon to give a lecture at Winterhold, that she only found out about when she snuck the letter out of her desk. Instead she arranged a family trip to Whiterun, to stay with Jarl Balgruuf ( _'If you see Nazeem, ask him if he gets to stay with the Jarl very often.'_ Papa grinned, and even Mother gave a half smile at that). With their return to Windhelm, came a return to their comfortable, mundane routine of lessons, book reading, and seeing how much she could grab out of her parents' room without them noticing.

Until _they_ came.

She had stayed up past her bed time, practising pulling the icy glowing mist that she had managed to conjure into something that at least had four legs; If Papa could conjure a sword (and he was hopeless at magic) then she could at least conjure up a pet. As such, she didn't hear the creaking of the front door, nor the quiet padding of footsteps. Oh, she heard the crash of someone banging into a dresser, but it wasn't the first time that Papa had bumped into furniture in the middle of the night. It was only when she heard two pairs of feet charging down the stairs, and a pair of boots stomping to her room that she realised something was wrong.

She ducked under Calder's arm as he opened her bedroom door and ran down the hall and stairs, her feet patting gently across the wooden floorboards. She only stopped when she could see the huge downstairs room, hiding in the shadows of the stairwell.

Her parents were surrounded by dark robed figures- ten by her count- each with a face covered by a cruel, bone-white mask. In the centre of the crude circle, her parents looked woefully dishevelled. Her Mother was only wearing a shirt far too large for her willowy frame, and Papa was only covered by a loose pair of linen trousers, hastily tied. But despite their state of undress they looked... _scary_ was the only way to put it. Back to back they stood, towering over their assailants; their golden skin was illuminated by the flickering light of the flames her Mother had readied in her hands, a light that contorted their faces into shadowy expressions of anger. 

Funny. She had never been scared of Papa before, but it was his scowl that kept her hidden and in silence.

Without warning a deep rumble erupted from her Mother's throat, breaking the circle and tossing a few of the assailants against the wall, as easily as she would toss a doll when in a mood. In the same instant, a streak of rippling purple emerged from her Papa's hand that slashed down quick as lightning, biting into one woman's neck and splattering her face with a deep red spray. Before the assassins could close rank, a crude void appeared, bringing with it a hulking mass of red and black muscle whose heavy mace crushed against the skull of another, shattering his mask and making it impossible to tell where the mask ended and the skull began. 

Her Mother turned with alarming speed, tossing a fireball that hurtled past Papa and setting alight an advancing enemy who dropped to the floor, screaming and writhing as his skin crumbled into ash. Another was momentarily frozen in horror, and Papa took the opportunity to toss him towards Mother and into the path of an oncoming bolt of electricity. The room was filled with a scent that turned the young girls stomach; the smell of roasting meat. They had already destroyed- killed was too kind a word, four of their assailants and neither of her parents had been scratched. But that wasn't to last. One of the figures Mother had so easily tossed against the wall had recovered himself and lunged at her, his silver knife slicing through the loose shirt and tearing into her flesh. She roared in a manner that was more reminiscent of an injured beast than a human, but it only seemed to make her stronger. She grabbed him by the throat, a cruel smile twisting her lips; it evolved into a snarl, and a sharp shard of ice erupted through his throat; he spluttered blood into her face before she let him fall.

Having heard his wife's cry, Papa pulled her behind him to recover herself, backing them both into a corner, a move that even she knew was a tactical disaster. In a wild move, he flung his sword at the head of another; whilst the blow didn't kill him, the blunt of the sword rang against his head and dazed him for a moment. As if they had done this a thousand times before (and though she didn't like to think it, they must have), Papa ducked just in time for a jet of flame to erupt from Mother's mouth. Nimble as a fox he slid under the fire, conjuring a replacement sword and deftly hamstringing the two human torches.

Three on two was far more feasible- the Dremora had vanished long ago. Now her parents would begin to toy with them. Despite her injury, Mother began to dance around their victims, every step a calculated move. Papa stood up once more, gesturing to one of the survivors to approach with a grin. He took the bait, only to be thrown back by a perfectly timed ward and into a casually tossed spike of ice. Another was trapped in a prison ice with another of her Mother's inhuman rumbles. One remained, and for the first time the girl tore her eyes away. What scared her most wasn't that assassins had slipped into her home, but that she had never seen her parents look so alive, so disturbingly happy. With a final shriek she knew the danger was gone, but her voice caught in her throat. She opened her eyes again.

"You alright?" Her Mother's breathless voice came as she lifted her hand to her bleeding arm. He stepped towards her, ash sticking to his bloody, bare feet.

"Alright as in, _'Oh golly, I'm still alive!'_ or as in _'The guards just let an army of insane assassins with robes that practically scream murder cult walk through the centre of Windhelm and into our home'_? You should really have a word with Brunwulf about who they let into the guard. Perhaps change the entry requirements to 'must have eyes'. I mean, yes, blind people might get a little bit offended but-'

"Oh hush. Are you hurt?" Her bloody hand moved to his shoulder.

"I may have grazed my knees bu-Oh, oh, that feels good..." She pulled him into a hug, an action that somehow shocked their daughter more than their talent for violence. Their veins shimmered with golden light, enveloping them both.

Calder placed his hand on the girl's shoulder, and the resulting yelp caused her parents to break apart in a panic, raising their hands and preparing for another attack. When they realised who it was, their expressions softened immediately. Her Papa rushed towards his child.

"Oh Gods, are you alright? None of them got upstairs did they? I should've let your mother keep teaching you to set the house on fire, shouldn't I? If one of them got up there and all you could do was throw snow at them- I mean they're obviously not scared of snow, they made it all the way to Windhelm-" He stopped. She was staring at him, transfixed by the blood stains, the same colour as his warpaint.

"She saw it all." The sound of her Mother's fear cut through her daze "Calder, gather her clothes and take her to the Palace. Remind Brunwulf that he owes me a favour. She won't get any sleep here tonight. We'll come and say goodbye to you in the morning Eilanil."

She went along quietly, and couldn't even bring herself to hug Papa- she thought that hurt him. Before she left, she vaguely noticed that her mother was tying up the last surviving assassin, the one she had encased in ice.

She didn't sleep that night, in the unfamiliar, too lush bed. When she saw her parents the next morning, they had dressed in their dirty travelling robes, their heavy hoods and thick cloaks- They always looked so hard like that, so serious. Their shadowed eyes showed that they slept as much as she had. Papa explained that they were going to Solstheim, that they had to go, that there wasn't any other choice. Mother simply handed her a sealed piece of parchment. Then they turned away and left her.

She couldn't shed a tear. Perhaps she _was_ like her Mother after all.


	2. Sea and Splinters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'...We're not used to taking prisoners, not really our forte, we prefer the 'kill first, then hope that they are carrying a note' approach, you see. But you've made that rather difficult- you came into our home, and you tried to kill us, to kill our daughter, so we can't just hope that you have a note on you, we have to know. How else can we protect our family?"'_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Their methods of information gathering were unsavory, yet Solstheim is probably worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Pinkwolpertinger for reminding me that I shouldn't play the pronoun game so often and that I'd get 1000 sins at cinema sins if I got any worse.

"You know, if we carry on like this, torture is going to end up on the list of bad Altmer stereotypes, right up there with attempting to destroy Empires, disturbing age old pantheons, and having a generally poor taste in fashion." Rumarin commented, somewhat half-heartedly. His wife remained silent, which was his cue to continue. "Can't you just wave your hands and make him your best friend so he'll tell you all his deepest darkest secrets? Oh, oh ask him what his favourite book is, I bet it's Kolb and the Dragon, cultists don't tend to be very bright."

She tested the tautness of the restraints, one of her more unlikely talents that she exercised on a somewhat regular basis. Generally speaking he was quite ambivalent towards his wife's methods, she was the kind of person who would do what needed to be done, and often he appreciated that. Sometimes though, sometimes she would slip into the kind of rational decision making that would make a Centurion proud, and that inevitably would lead her to do something she'd later regret. So that was his job. If he kept her talking, then it would be better for everyone in the room. She tested the restraints once again.

"Charm magic fell out of fashion after the Oblivion Crisis-"

"Told you, terrible taste in fashion-"

"-You know that." She pushed herself up to a stand, checking the bloody tear in the arm of his shirt. The skin was healed, but it still looked to be rather tender. He supposed her knowledge of Restoration must have grown rusty over the years, she much preferred finding an excuse to set something on fire than healing anything beyond the odd slip of a knife in her Mother-Daughter brewing sessions. Still, better than anything he could do.

"Actually, no I didn't. I learn something new every day, married to you. What was it yesterday? That Viola is servicing at least two different guardsmen, and you can tell that it's two guards and not one because one of them is duck footed? Or the day before that, when..."

She was resisting his calculated, annoying rambles, attempting to stride past him. "We should get dressed before he comes to. I need to be there when he wakes up." Rumarin grasped for her, first taking her forearm before sliding his hand down to graze against her fingers.

"You've just been prancing around in my favourite shirt with nothing on underneath, he's probably seen the scariest part of you. Just slow down a moment-" he frowned as he felt her fingers sternly writhe against his grasp- she really was Oblivion-bent on having the content of this man's bowels add to their quickly growing collection of ash and blood, not so artfully displayed around the room. "Love, please-" he squeezed her fingers. "-Andola-" that made her stop. He was the only person who ever used her name aloud. Most simply called her 'Dragonborn', or 'Elf', or occasionally when they thought the family was out of earshot (the completely unoriginal) 'High Bitch.' Only he used her real name, and even that was rare. She gave him a wan half smile that melted her stern expression for half a second.

"For our daughter." she whispered, before pulling him up the stairs.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a long time since they had rented a room, and she had forgotten how unusual an experience it was. The room was relatively comfortable, Andola supposed. There were all the usual amenities and then some; Not many inn keepers threw in a health potion as standard, although the bed itself left much to be desired. It was, delicately put (and she didn't put things delicately often, a testament to the quality of the rest of the room), less comfortable than the floor of a barrow surrounded by rotting draugr bodies, as at least the barrow floors were made of stone and not splinters. Maybe they had grown pampered in their semi-retirement, but good Gods, what she wouldn't give for their imported goose-down mattress right about now.

Of course, it hadn't stopped them from falling asleep straight away. Three days without so much as a wink of shut eye would do that to you.

But that didn't mean that she was sleeping well. Rumarin had crawled out of bed at least an hour ago to...stretch his legs, she supposed. It wouldn't surprise her if he'd decided to sleep upstairs, at least the stools were moderately comfortable, and he _did_ always boast about sleeping being one of his few talents. She shifted onto her side only to immediately regret that decision as a particularly nasty splinter lodged itself into her arm. With a hiss she folded one of the furs over itself and placed herself on top. It was cold, but she would have to make do.

Neither of them were very good at travelling by sea, it was completely different to climbing numerous mountains together on a near daily basis. Yes, a few rocks might come loose underfoot, but that was nothing compared to the cruel shifting of the tides and nauseating rocking that came hand in hand with travel by sea. She found herself spending most of the journey hanging over the side of the boat, sick to the stomach in a way that she hadn't been since pregnant with their daughter. Her husband hadn't been much better. Rumarin had, admittedly, held her hair back, but then he had started throwing up as well. And somehow, he had missed the sea.

So, the last thing they expected (or wanted) when they finally docked in Solstheim was the Thalmor Inquisition. Well, not the literal Thalmor Inquisition (she heard tell that they viewed Solstheim as a pointless endeavour), but a welcoming committee so invasive and so ill-timed that she would have liked nothing more than to take one of the ship's discarded oars and ram it so far up his arse that he'd be spitting splinters for a week. She was _that_ close to telling Rumarin to do it.

As she shifted her weight, she realised how glad she was that she hadn't. She wouldn't wish these kind of splinters on Alduin himself, never mind some up-jumped bureaucrat. 

Andola answered all his questions as succinctly as possible, having to cast a number of warning glances to her husband to stop him from talking, because he could go on for hours when irked and those would be hours not spent being asleep; It was such a wonderful prospect that she almost stumbled over herself when they were finally directed to the nearest (and only) cornerclub. Then they had taken the nearest spare room and fallen asleep almost immediately.

She shifted again, running her fingers over the splinter in the darkness and pulling it out with a practised wince. The thought that he had been gone a while briefly passed her mind as she fell asleep back to sleep

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

"Good. You're awake."

Rumarin squinted at the orb of light she had summoned, a light so harsh that it made the Dunmer's ashen skin look almost paper-thin. His eyes were sore, although Dunmer always did seem to look like they were always in the midst of a permanent allergic reaction, maybe they were all allergic to ash and never realised it? He didn't give voice to that particular thought. He had to hand it to the man, he recovered himself fairly well. His initial shock at coming to had dissipated fairly quickly into a scowl of distaste, and he had settled back into his chair after briefly testing his wife's talent for rope tying.

He also had to admit that they looked far more intimidating now that they were dressed. He noted that Andola had chosen her beaten travelling robes, black and red and crusted with dirt and blood stains that no amount of washing would ever get out. Magical items were such a pain to clean. He'd simply grabbed the College Robes- actual College Robes, robes that she'd stolen for him when she broke ties with Winterhold, and enchanted with...something to do with Conjuration, alongside the usual quite frankly useless effects. She knew that that they would be going travelling, that much he could tell by her choice of clothes.

"I'm awfully sorry about your accommodations, but, you see, this was the best we could do. We're not used to taking prisoners, not really our forte," he flicked his eyes from one to the other, his wife stony faced and her voice dripping with a chillingly rehearsed false kindness. Her prisoner refused to meet her gaze. He folded his arms over his chest as he watched the scene, but more importantly, as he watched his wife. "we prefer the 'kill first, then hope that they are carrying a note' approach you see. But you've made that rather difficult," her laugh was as grating as a Bard's College graduate "you see, you came into our home, and you tried to kill us, to kill our daughter, so we can't just hope that you have a note on you, we have to know. How else can we protect our family?" She crouched down slightly, he saw her eyes drift to his dirty nails.

"Who sent you?"

"I won't answer your questions, false Dragonborn, you and your whore will tremble before him." He couldn't help but snort at that, causing his wife to whip her head around with a scowl.

"Sorry, I haven't been called a whore in...well, actually, I can't remember when. A refreshing change- that's normally what people call you isn't it love?"

"With no good reason." Andola retorted, through gritted teeth. Good. If he could keep her from her eerie calm and cool logic, then there was more chance of her thinking through her actions, and less chance of her doing something for the _greater good_. He certainly wasn't going to clean up after her.

"So we know that his employer, or god, or local charismatic Heimskr impersonator is an equal opportunity slur-slinger. That narrows it down-"

The Dunmer prisoner looked enraged "Employer? Pah, how dare you assume we do this for mere mortal-" 

"Same thing isn't it, you follow your bosses orders and you get paid in tickets to be exchanged upon your ultimately untimely demise?" That earned him a glare from torturer and prisoner both.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The issue with underground rooms was that you could never gauge how much time had passed between wakings. She could have been asleep for five hours or five minutes. She rolled over to face the other side of the bed, noting absent-mindedly that her husband wasn't back. It was rather odd, she had to admit. Rumarin wasn't one for long night time or early morning wanderings, he always complained if she attempted to get up before dawn to do some reading or to go to Hlaalu Farm to buy the best produce before it reached the market. It was...unsettling. She swung her legs over the bed and cast a dull white light above her head to pull on her robes, neatly folded at the foot of the bed. She noted that his robes were still thrown haphazardly around the room.

Her husband was many things, but a partial nudist wasn't one of them.

With a barely discernible frown she made her way to the main bar, brushing her copper hair back into some semblance of neatness before she talked to the barkeep-Gildis, no, Geldis was it? He looked relatively bright, cleaning the rims of a few of the night's glasses. Perhaps it was morning then? Andola knew many barkeepers liked to leave that kind of job until the next morning; When you spend the night on your feet the last thing you want to do is clean glasses. She scanned the abandoned bar quickly before she addressed him.

"Excuse me, you haven't seen my companion, have you?" her words were polite enough, but her naturally cold drawl made the elf frown. She had that effect on people. "He probably went out to do his business, he didn't bother to put his robes on." The Dunmer continued to scowl as he finished wiping down the glass.

"Not exactly 'ard to miss, are you? Two Altmer running around Raven Rock, talk of the town you two are. Yeah, I saw 'im, went straight outside a couple of 'ours since. I'd ask some of the guards, they've probably been asked to keep an eye on you two as is."

She forced her slight grimace at his pointed tone into something she hoped resembled a smile, and made her way outside, squinting at the odd half darkness that put the time, at her guess, an hour before dawn. She checked the outside of the bar to see if he had collapsed against the wall (it would be just like him to be too lazy to crawl back inside) but there was no sign of him. The guard standing by the door hadn't seen him either, claiming that he had just come on for his shift. She kicked up a little dust in frustration, uncovering a tiny sprig of green. An odd little reminder that once, it might have actually been nice here.

"Looking for your husband?" the voice was as grating as a grindstone, and twice as snide as her own (which, she had to admit was quite the achievement). She turned around to see a set of robes far to ostentatious for her taste, obviously overcompensating for a lack of compelling personality, a frame that she had to assume was sickly beneath the sharp shoulders and heavy fabric, and a face that was disappointingly mundane. Still it had mildly shocked her that he had deduced their relationship without hesitation, despite never seeing them together.

"How did you-"

"Two Altmer stroll into town wearing matching rings. Really, it was hardly difficult to discern. You looking around for him merely confirmed it. Your kind don't tend to care for the hired help." Gods what she wouldn't give to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off of his thin lips. She couldn't stand those who felt they were above others (only if said _others_ included her, of course), his entire attitude irked her. But she refused to let it show, her face maintaining her natural, slightly bored expression.

"Well, where is he?" She folded her arms, ever so slightly rolling her shoulders back and gently quirking her brow. Being married to a mummer had its perks, one of which being the one-on-one lessons on how to convey rehearsed annoyance without it seeming to rehearsed. It wasn't something she was naturally very good at, she'd been taught from a young age that being overly expressive wasn't becoming of a young lady.

"You probably sailed right past it you know. That odd structure outside the town, all that quite frankly _shabby_ building work, but what can you expect from a load of ash-yam farmers I suppose. Yes, I was just observing the villagers as I tend to do, seeing if they'd say anything different than that boring little mantra, when I saw your husband-"

"Just tell me where he is." the practised mask fell instantly, her tone vaguely testy. It wasn't very often that she let her emotions run away with her. He, of course, seemed not to hear her. She wondered if this was what talking with her felt like.

"-Well, naturally I observed, after all perhaps a newcomer in the mix would say something a little different, perhaps act a little stranger? But no, it was all the usual 'Our hands once were idle' drivel. You can go see for yourself if you want, just down that path there." He gestured vaguely before walking off, without so much as a goodbye. Not that she minded. If she ever had to meet him again it would be too soon.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Andola removed her hands from the Dunmer's, causing the tiny icicles to retreat from underneath his fingernails. To say the prisoner was exhausted was to make the understatement of the era, although Rumarin felt very little sympathy for him. Honestly, he'd seen his wife do much worse under far less stressful conditions. This was, quite frankly tame for her. He watched as she examined her pointed nails placidly, seemingly unaware of the damage she'd caused. He supposed it was his turn to ask the questions.

"So, who sent you." He couldn't be bothered with pushing himself off the wall, they'd been at this for a good few hours already. He listened to the laboured panting of their victim, his raspy voice pushing through his throat, raw from all the screaming. Hopefully they wouldn't be around to deal with the complaints from the neighbours, half the town was just begging for an excuse to have them arrested, and 'noise disturbance' was as good a reason as any for them to spend the evening in the cells. They'd only managed to turn the guards away so far because they were Thanes of the Hold, but that wouldn't protect them forever

"M-Miraak." he managed to force out with a splutter, letting his head fall backwards in some vain attempt to get some fresh air. He looked to his wife, who was frowning. All the cue needed to know that he had to ask another question. He knew this act well.

"What's a Miraak?" he couldn't resist, the scowl his wife cast him was priceless, even now. Any way to stop her from becoming too cold and methodical. Anything to keep her in check.

"He's- He's the true Dragonborn, a master of the tongue, not like this false hack-" he coughed, an action so violent it forced his head forwards, causing the chair to rock. Rumarin turned to his wife, planting a look of mock horror firmly on his features.

"You mean you were lying to me all this time? All those Dragon souls you devoured was just a bit of magical jiggery pokery? Next you'll tell me that the sky isn't blue and that you never liked my cooking!" She was defiantly ignoring him. He watched as she lowered herself to her victim's level, eye to eye as she tipped his head up.

"What was your mission?" her tone made his blood run cold, a defiant iciness that he hadn't heard in years, not since she broke away from Winterhold.

"To cleanse the earth for his coming, to execute the False Dragonborn and bring him her foul spawn-"

He had never seen his wife punch someone before. He knew that she liked the odd unarmed bedroom fracas every now and again, but she never hit hard enough to cause any lasting damage. At that punch, the Dunmer laughed, a wheezing, hacking, strangled sound. His mouth fell open, and his laugh turned into a howl of hilarity. It obviously hadn't hurt very much. His wife's nostrils flared slightly, so he decided to step up and play the gallant if inept knight, socking him square in the jaw. He could at least throw a stronger punch than his wife.

After all, it was his daughter as well, his favourite sneaky little skeever whose face swam to the forefront of his mind as he punched again, and again, and how dare this thing even consider taking his sweet baby sload and-

She grabbed his arm, stopping him immediately, and his fist throbbed dully. He was supposed to be the nice one, wasn't he? Emotions, who needed them? Sometimes, he swore his wife had the right of it. He sucked in a deep breath to calm himself. His fist throbbed slightly, but with a stretch of his fingers he concluded nothing was broken. He should really stick to swords.

"Where is he? Where were you to take her?" She had narrowed her amber eyes, and he followed suit. It occurred to him how glad he would be when this interrogation ended-

"Solstheim."

Before he could even react, his wife had summoned a crack of pure energy that resounded throughout the room, and the cultist had turned to ash. Bastard.

Her jaw was set as she turned back to him "Before you say it, I don't regret it."

"I didn't say you would."

"That was a purely emotional reaction to a reasonable threat against our family."

"Absolutely. You cremated him. They're all about that dust-to-dust malarky aren't they? No coffins, no nothing, just -poof- and throw them in the air somewhere. Really, it was a kindness. Plus, sweeping up a bit of dust is easier than a big bloody body. We have enough of them as is." he gestured to the bodies scattered about the floor of the room. Well, the ones that they hadn't completely eviscerated earlier.

She cracked a slight smile "True, we're going to have to ask someone to clean up, I can't stand coming home to a dirty house."

"Or a house filled with rotting corpses?"

"Same thing for us, isn't it? Go and get one of the guards to find us a courier, would you? I'm going to call in a few favours. We'll board the first ship to Solstheim in the morning."

"Wait, do you actually know a cleaner?" He paused as she retreated to her desk upstairs "Then why have you been making me sweep the floors for ten years?"

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

This must be some sort of elaborate prank. Her husband was practically _allergic_ to anything that resembled manual labour. She had to nag him endlessly to help out around the house, and yet here he was, hammering away at this awfully unsafe looking structure that surrounded an odd kind off standing stone. Very amusing. She took a moment to appraise her husband's torso, chiselled despite being a sload in all but body, before walking up to him.

"Very funny Rumarin. Come on now. Go back to the inn and get dressed so we can start asking around about Miraak." He didn't respond. That damnable Dunmer had said he was in some sort of a trance, but she didn't believe him, her husband was, after all, very good at play-acting.

"Really, I'm impressed with the dedication. It's Not like you to miss a chance for a good night's sleep."

"Here in his shrine, that they have forgotten. Here do we toil, that we might remember-"

She frowned at that, she had never heard him sound quite so...monotone. He was rather sarcastic, and that kind of sarcasm required a certain kind of flat delivery, but still. He almost sounded...gone was the best way to put it, like he had retreated from his body. A shiver of worry slithered through her, as it had those few nights ago, when those cultist bastards had crept into their home-

"Ru, stop, please." She placed a hand on his arm. He didn't react, still hammering away at the stone. 

"By night we reclaim, what by day was stolen-"

"Ru, this isn't funny, stop-" with some effort she turned him to face her. The blankness in his eyes was the most terrifying thing she'd seen in years.

"Far from ourselves, he grows ever near to us-"

"RU-"

"Our eyes once were blinded-"

"STOP-"

"Now through him do we see-"

"FUS-RO"

She stopped herself from using the full shout, she'd been on the receiving end of that particular sequence many a time and she knew Rumarin wouldn't appreciate the experience. He stumbled backwards and lost his balance completely, his body slamming into the shallow pool of water that surrounded the stone. For one anxious moment he remained motionless _(thank the Nine the pool was shallow, he could have drowned, just because it seemed the best option at the time oh-)_ before he sat up, a dazed expression shadowing his pointed features.

"We didn't decide to get drunk, did we?" he rubbed the back of his head, noting his blonde hair was absolutely sodden, it was only then he realised-"Why am I in a pool? Why are my ears ringing- Oh gods, don't say we're banned from another inn, I'm almost certain that's the only one on this bloody island-" he paused for a moment, a frown cutting through his daze. "Are...are you _crying?_ -" he looked around at the others, still hammering away, as if begging someone else to witness this. "In public. You, crying. In public." Bewildered, he pulled himself up to a stand with some effort. She absent-mindedly raised a hand to her cheek. It was wet.

"I- this is weird." he held his hands awkwardly at his side, hesitating to step forward. "Am I Ok to- I mean, I know there's people around, but they aren't exactly paying attention, are they?" she nodded deftly as he moved to wrap her in his arms. He was only an inch or so taller than her, but somehow that made all the difference. "Careful now, people might start thinking we're Bosmer that fell in some tacky yellow paint." she exhaled sharply, which was as close to a laugh as she often gave. They stayed there for a moment, in something that resembled peace, before.

"Andola, why am I walking around with no top on?"


	3. A Grand Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Of course, she knew that the old Jarls that Brunwulf housed didn't really like her. They'd hold their tongues of course, being guests who live in relative comfort but could just as easily be tossed in the dungeons, but the scowls they gave her as she walked past were not so easily hidden. Still, she paid them no mind, they were easy enough to ignore. She knew that some of the locals didn't like her either, just because she had the gall to be the Dragonborn's daughter, but they'd always been polite to her face, and she never gave them cause to say a word against her. Surely Calder would be able to handle a few snide comments? She certainly could, and people always said that Altmer were notoriously thin skinned, being so full of pride._
> 
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> _She thought Brunwulf was exaggerating. It took her sneaking off to figure out what he meant._
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> Court is dry, drab, and no place for a young adventurous girl. She may think that playing the mummer is harmless, but mummers tend to take issue with the truth. And the truth can be too much for young, adventurous girls.

Eilanil had come to the conclusion that _anything_ was more interesting than life at court. Listening to her mother rant for the thousandth time about the College was more interesting. Watching her Papa nap was more interesting. Sitting alone in her room with nothing to stare at but a blank wall was still a hundred times more interesting than the stream of petitioners the Jarl met with every day: Argonians complaining about the price of housing inside the city walls; Nords raising concerns regarding the amount of Septims being pumped into the ongoing building works in the Gray Quarter; farmers reporting on funny sounding things like 'agricultural stagnation'; and merchants debating the ever changing customs rate. The stream of complaints was endless. The stream of people was endless. The stream of droning voices with the same barely incensed tone was _endless_.

And it was all so boring.

Yet she was expected to be there for it all. She was Jarl Brunwulf's honoured guest, the daughter of the Thane and most prestigious citizen of Windhelm to boot. If she was to stay with him then she was to learn about the comings and goings of courtly life that her parents routinely ignored, he said. Really, she suspected that it was just so he could keep an eye on her. Calder was absolutely useless. He deferred to the Jarl every time she asked if she could go out to the market to run about, or outside the walls to visit the stables, and every time Brunwulf said no. _'It's not safe for little girls to run about Windhelm by themselves'_ he'd say. She'd retort by saying that she wasn't a little girl, she was eight, and Calder was her mother's housecarl, he'd protect her. He'd always counter by saying, with a slightly sad, patronising smile that Calder might not be enough.

Of course, she knew that the old Jarls that Brunwulf housed didn't really like her. They'd hold their tongues of course, being guests who live in relative comfort but could just as easily be tossed in the dungeons, but the scowls they gave her as she walked past were not so easily hidden. Still, she paid them no mind, they were easy enough to ignore. She knew that some of the locals didn't like her either, just because she had the gall to be the Dragonborn's daughter, but they'd always been polite to her face, and she never gave them cause to say a word against her. Surely Calder would be able to handle a few snide comments? She certainly could, and people always said that Altmer were notoriously thin skinned, being so full of pride.

She thought Brunwulf was exaggerating. It took her sneaking off to figure out what he meant.

She'd managed to wrangle her way out of court by pretending that she had a poorly stomach; after all, Papa always said that she was his greatest (and only) apprentice, and telling her how to pretend to be poorly was one of the first things he had ever taught her ( _'I used to use it on your mother to get out of the cleaning, but it didn't take long for her to figure out that the severity of my illness was directly proportionate to how dusty the house was.'_ ). By the age of five she was perfectly simulating coughs, colds, headaches, stomach pains and nausea, all with very little effort. Her Mother and Papa may recognise when she was faking, but Brunwulf didn't know her that well, so he gave her leave to stay in her room for the day- If she was truly ill, that surely would have been enough to make her feel better by itself. All she had to do now was plan her escape.

She was being housed in the northern section of the Palace, in a room not too far from the Jarl's own. She knew that the only exit led her into a side chamber off of the main hall, and she'd have to pass by Brunwulf to reach the main doors, so she had to rule the direct route out. For a wild moment she considered clambering out of the window and scaling the walls; after all, from what she'd seen the stone wasn't so different from that of Hjerim, Papa and her had spent far too many hours annoying her mother by scaling the walls and tapping on the windows whilst she was working. However, a glance to the windows told her that was impossible. The thick panels were securely entrenched in the criss-crossed stone. She supposed that there was no real need to open the windows this far north, the priority was making sure the warmth didn't escape. Stone buildings such as the Palace could get really draughty.

After running through a number of other ideas, each more stupid than the last, she decided that she had to hand it to whoever designed the Palace, it wasn't easy to break into. Or out of. As far as she knew there were no secret passages (Mother would surely have found them when planning the siege all those years ago), the space for the panes of glass in the window were so small not even a skeever could squeeze through, and the upstairs corridors were cramped and claustrophobic, with nowhere to hide. Her dreams of a grand escape would have to stay in her head.

Suddenly, inspiration struck when Sifnar brought her a bowl of broth and heel of bread to 'keep her strength up'. She allowed a couple of well trained tears to fall as she put her plan into action; she was, after all, a sick little girl whose parents had gone away; her mother was a renowned mage who on occasion would offer up her services for a little extra coin, the echoes of magic had accompanied her childhood just as much as crackling fires and unbelievable stories had. Anyone would believe that she found the sounds of magic comforting. What a fortunate coincidence then, that the new court wizard, Onmund, worked in the Southern wing, the entrance to which was behind where all the petitioners normally gathered, which gave her a clear shot of sneaking out of the Palace unnoticed.

She did feel a little mean, lying to Sifnar, but she was so anxious to get outside that she could easily forget about it. She felt like she might have over done the sad, sick little girl routine with her sniffling and moaning and artfully running nose, but at the end of the day she was an honoured guest and Sifnar was just an elderly servant, so despite whatever doubts he may have had he gently took her by hand and led her downstairs to the southern wing; servants had a way of going about unnoticed. He left her at the bottom of the stairs, citing duties to attend to. With some effort, she managed to stop the heavy metal door from slamming completely shut.

She pressed her eye to the gap between the door and the frame, watching for when the next petitioner would be dismissed. When someone was dismissed, the crowd would always shift, and when the crowd shifted she should be able to make a break for the doors unnoticed. She'd watched how the crowd shuffled at least a hundred times before. Then she heard it, Brunwulf raising his voice a little, the murmurs of the crowd began to swell as they jostled each other out of the way, the grunts of pushing and shoving as the next person tried to get to the front of the queue. As quietly as she could, she pulled on the heavy door and slipped out, joining the departing farmers and their children. She pulled her long pale hair over her ears, praying to the nine that the dozy guard wouldn't look too closely.

Once outside she darted past the farmers and ducked into the passageway that separated the Avenue of Valour from the Palace grounds- freedom! A daring escape worthy of either of her parents, to be sure! And it was just so nice to be outside, out from under the watchful eye of the Jarl and poor daft Calder; the man didn't have an adventurous bone in his body! And that was what this was, wasn't it? An _adventure_. She could be like Ravius, having just stolen the Baroness' stockings. Papa had always told her it was stockings, but she had no idea why a thief would drop so many expensive coins for some dirty old stockings, or why he would steal them again and again. Or maybe she was the Gray Fox, the master thief of Cyrodiil, slipping out of some rotten jail and into the night. Well, the day, in her case, but to escape at night would have been far more dramatic.

But she'd been so focused on getting out that she hadn't given any thought on what to do now that she was free. She could drop by her house, but she didn't have any way to get inside; Mother would surely have locked the door before she left, and she barely trusted Papa with the keys, never mind her daughter. The docks might be a good idea, far away from the Palace and guards as it was, but there was nothing really there asides from the dock workers, and she never liked the stink of fish that seemed ingrained in the stonework and slimy cobbles out there. She could run through the Gray Quarter, the steps were always fun to climb up and jump down, but there would be lots of building work going on there at the moment, if the petitioners were anything to go by. So, what was left to her? The market place? She could take her time, walking through the graveyard. She could even slip quietly into the Hall of the Dead as she went past.

It was only when she rounded the corner into the graveyard that she realised she had made a mistake. Standing between her and the stairs that led to the Stone Quarter were three guards, helmets off, obviously taking some kind of break- they were passing a brown glass bottle around. She noted the strong accent that marked them as locals. She had noticed more and more local accents on the guards recently, Mother had said something about the Jarl making more jobs for the natives, but she did miss the gentle Cyrodillic lilt of some of the Imperials. She recognised one of the guards from the Palace, he was normally in the main hall in the evenings, if she remembered correctly. What was his name? Haaki? Hoki? Something like that. Whatever his name was, he'd surely tell Brunwulf that she'd been outside the Palace if he caught her. The other two, a man and a woman, she had never seen before. They were probably stationed outside the city most of the time. Before they could notice her she ducked down behind one of the grave markers, and waited for them to leave.

They didn't.

"So, Brinvild," that must be the woman's name. "You had to clean up after them, what do you think happened?"

"I don't like to think about it. Grisly mess it was. You remember the Butcher right? Years and years ago now. You'd still be pissing in your breechers," the other man snorted a laugh as Haaki grunted. "my Pa had to clean up the mess he left in there, and the way he described it...Exactly the same. Blood everywhere, corpses practically piled on top of one another. I think it was worse than the Butcher now I think on it. The Butcher never burned people to death. The Butcher never turned his victims to ash. We were only able to piece together a couple of full bodies, there must have been more just going by the amount of dust we had to sweep up." the woman replied.

"That's not what I asked. What do you think happened?"

"How am I supposed to-"

"I was on guard duty when she went to talk to Brunwulf. Walked straight into his room bold as bronze, I could barely keep up with her." Haaki interjected "Said it was cultists, tried killing her and her husband-"

"That's a lie right there. You were playing drinking games with Viola." The woman interrupted "Keval was stationed outside their house when they started brawling-"

"Pah, brawling my arse-" the unknown third voice muttered

"-Said she didn't leave the house. That Rumarin fellow did, but never her." the woman took a deep breath. Eilanil heard her feet shift against the cold stone floor. "I bet it was a cover up. They're all sadists those High Elves, and cannibals to boot. Or is that Wood Elves? Anyway, one of their victims made too much noise so they needed a cover up. Cultists, pah-"

"How were the corpses so fresh then? Looked fresh from what I heard." the third voice questioned.

"She's a mage and the Dragonborn besides. I'll bet a months wages she knows how to use ice magic. It's how you could tell who she and her husband killed during the siege. If they had frostbite or arrow wounds with no arrows, then you knew who to blame. All she'd have to do is thaw them corpses out and clean up the water." Brinvild declared boldly. The guards stood in silence for a long, painful moment. Perhaps they were getting ready to go back to their duties?

No such luck. The sound of a swig of liquid cut through the silence

"You seen that get of theirs running around the Palace?" Haaki muttered. Eilanil froze.

"Skinny thing isn't she? Wouldn't last a day doing the work we had to growing up." came the third voice.

"Eilanil or some other stupid fancy elven name, isn't it? Aye, I've seen her." Brinvild concurred. "What do you think will happen to her if those two don't come back?"

"Brunwulf will probably keep looking after her, won't he? Man's got the heart of a milk drinker, that one. Puts too much stock in promises. She'll just keep living pretty on our taxes whilst the rest of us have to scrape by." Haaki grumbled.

"Be better for everyone if she'd gone off with her parents, then we wouldn't be paying for her. I don't want to pay for no bleedin' elf, in fact-" the woman cut herself off, and she heard another swig of alcohol go down. Her voice had been filled with something deeper, more raw than anger, an emotion she couldn't put a name to.

Her heart beat roared in her ears. Whatever the woman had wanted to say, it hadn't been very nice. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

 

"We all lost family that day Brinvild-" Haaki began.

"To her or her husband. My older sister-"

"My aunt and uncle-"

"But we can't-"

"We shouldn't-"

"-Blame the child, aye. I know. But I'm just saying- what if? Get rid of her, send her to Riften or whatever. No-one would miss her. What gives her the right to-" the woman cut herself off as Eilanil shifted her balance, her foot sliding against a thin patch of ice and slamming into the rocky ground. Oh gods no. She was in trouble now.

"Who's there?" She heard the drawing of weapons, two swords and something blunt, probably. "Show yourself!" there was no escape, they'd find her here, and as the woman had said, no-one would miss her asides from her parents, and her parents were gone-

A voice came from behind her.

"Sorry, I was just on my way back from the Palace to my stall- Is something the matter?" Surely he must see her? Whoever it was, he wasn't ratting her out.

"Ah, Aval." Haaki muttered, sheathing his weapon. The other two followed suit after a moment's hesitation. A moment too long by her count. "Nothing the matter at all, can never be too careful."

"In a graveyard?" the Elf's voice dripped with scepticism.

"You ever been in a Barrow? Cleared one out as a training exercise. Our dead have a habit of coming back after a few centuries."

"Can't do that if you just cremate your dead." Aval replied without skipping a beat.

"Aye. Suppose that's where your lot have us beat." There was a long pause, she could imagine the dark elf and the guards staring each other down. Haaki broke first, with a very painfully forced cough.

"Anyways, we've had enough of a break. Best get back to it." One by one, she heard the mailed footsteps retreating to the Stone Quarter. She definitely wasn't going to go there today.

"Now then Eilanil," he placed his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. "does Brunwulf know you're running about the city all by yourself?"

"I- Yes I-" She lied, all too quickly.

"Only he told me that you were resting because you had a bad stomach."

Caught out. Damn. If only she had her Papa's talent for talking her way out of trouble.

"He worries, you know. You see now why he doesn't want you wandering about by yourself?"

She nodded solemnly, lowering her amber eyes to her slightly scuffed shoes, her shoulders slumped. She was almost as tall as a grown Breton, but she suddenly felt very small "He said- He said Calder might not be enough." she admitted, almost under her breath. Gently, he tilted her chin up.

"Calder is good, but it'd be suicide to take on three guards by himself." he shook his head, giving her a wan smile. "Brunwulf is a good man. An _honourable_ man. He takes everything that happens in this city as his responsibility, if something had happened-" he cut himself short "You've abused his trust-" she opened her mouth to protest, but he ignored her. "-and I can't let that slide, not after everything he's done for us, is doing for us. Now, I'm going to take you back to the Palace, and I'll wait with you until he adjourns court. Then I want you to explain to him how very sorry you are. I don't know if he'll punish you, but he almost certainly won't trust you for a long time. Understand?" She nodded again, all of the previous bravado she had, the thrill and adventure of escaping, had seeped away. She felt like a Draugr, a husk.

"Right then." He straightened up, offering her his hand. "Let's get you back then." Half reluctantly, she took it, and allowed herself to be taken back to the Palace. She didn't realise that she'd feel guilty about all this, she had thought Brunwulf was just being unreasonable, or maybe a little paranoid. Had her mother and Papa ever done anything like that, abused someone's trust? Even if they had, she wasn't sure that her Mother's limited emotional range included guilt, and Papa didn't like to dwell on things. Joke about them, yes, but never dwell. 

She was thankful that the walk to the Palace wasn't very long, as they had fallen into a painfully awkward silence. It was horrible to say, but she had never really considered Aval a person. He was more of a feature to her mind, a little bit of decoration who was always present in the market or sometimes at the back of court. It was impossible to take note of everyone in a city as large as Windhelm. But right now, he was her saviour, the hero of a girl he barely knew, but why? Who knew what those guards would have done to her if they found her? The way the woman was speaking... She suppressed a shudder.

The crowd in the main hall had thinned substantially in her brief hour or so of freedom, a few Argonians discussing warehouse stock with Brunwulf, a few Dark Elves, and a beggar who had fallen into the habit of sneaking out of the cold when court was in session, hiding amongst the petitioners She and Aval stood at the back, watching in silence as the Argonians were dismissed, only to be replaced by a Dunmeri foreman, giving a progress report on the building works in the Gray Quarter, pointedly noting any additional costs, as he did every couple of days. After he and his workers departed, there were just two people left. 

Was it bad of her that she thought he was just another builder, hidden by the crowd? But now she could look at him properly. An unusually well built Dunmer in rough leather armour, but he was scarier than the others. A frayed, yellowing bandage covered one eye, one of his ears looked like it had a chunk torn out of it, and his skin, from what she could see, was a map of scars and gouged out chunks of muscle. Something about the way he held himself, straight backed with a thumb massaging the hilt of his knife, made her want to run away. With him was a girl- or would she class her as a woman? She was sharp featured with a broad brow, her long brown hair pulled back into a tight, thick braid that showed her slightly pointed ears. She was a Breton then. She wasn't the prettiest to look at, but going by the frayed, stained robes, she shouldn't tell her that to her face. The pair stepped forward, the Elf leading, and spoke without being prompted not announced. He was lucky Brunwulf wasn't a proud man.

"I am here for the girl." His voice was enough to make fresh milk curdle.

Brunwulf sat up a little straighter in his seat, his eyes flitting to the corner of the room, where Aval and herself stood. If he was surprised, he hid it well "What is your name?"

"Raynes." he paused, tilting his head in the Breton's direction, "The girl is Morrigan."

Brunwulf paused for a moment, glancing to his steward, who gave a barely discernible shrug.

"I've never heard of you." he responded eventually.

"I travel."

"For what?"

"My job."

"Which is?"

"Upholding the law."

Brunwulf gave a short burst of laughter at that, dry and humourless though it was. "And how will Eilanil help with that?"

"The Elf sent for me."

"Her mother put her into my care."

"Do I look like a _liar_ , s'wit?" His voiced flipped from a growl to a bark as he made to step forward, and was only held in place by a glance at Morrigan. He didn't retreat, just...froze. With his vicious change in tone the guards moved their hands to the hilts of their weapons. The Breton whispered something to him, and he reached into one of the many pockets stitched onto the outside of his armour.

"The letter she sent me."

One of the guards came forward to collect the piece of parchment and even from this distance she could tell that it was frayed and torn. Brunwulf sat quietly as he read the letter, his eyes flitting between the parchment and the man

"It is her hand." he said with some effort, as if reluctant to admit it. He finally gestured for Eilanil to come forward from the corner. At the sudden movement, she saw the bandaged Elf turn, and felt his single blood shot eye give her the once over; His gaze was as weighty and as unsubtle as a hammer, she could tell that he was taking in everything about her, from the muddy bottoms of her dress to her mussed, loose hair and shamed, slumped stance. If he really did know her mother, then no doubt he was comparing the two, it was always so hard for her to live up to the lofty Dragonborn's reputation. "This letter here says-"

"I can read-" Raynes interrupted with unsurprising viciousness

"-For the benefit of the child." Brunwulf frowned "This letter requests that Raynes here, come to Windhelm in order to act as your protector. He is not expected to house you, or feed you, but instead must dispatch of any threats to your person, and I quote _'as is your forte.'_ " Brunwulf coughed, trying to swallow something. Did he find it insulting that her mother had sought out help from others? "Are you agreeable Eilanil?"

She looked to Raynes, and her immediate impulse was to shout 'no' and run upstairs. This man was simply terrifying, he resembled a beast more than any man she had ever known, with his quick temper and puckered scars. She wondered what her Mother must have done to turn this vicious...thing into her babysitter. But then she thought on it, on the guards she had overheard, on the simmering tensions between the Nords and her family. Raynes was intimidating; even Brunwulf with all his guards looked a little disturbed. Maybe he would be useful. Who knows, she might even be allowed outside the Palace with him and Calder together.

She nodded her head. Brunwulf looked almost disappointed. With great effort he managed to force out some falsely courteous spiel about offering Raynes and Morrigan accommodations, which was quickly dismissed.

"I will stay outside her room. Morrigan will stay inside. Don't waste your breath with your false courtesies s'wit. I don't have to like you, and you don't have to like me."

She couldn't help but think that it was a testament to the sway Mother held over Brunwulf that he only reacted with silence. Mother and Papa couldn't get back soon enough.


	4. Poor Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'The snow began to turn from a light flurry to a heavy fall. Through the flakes she could just about discern the imposing shadow of a structure wounding the grey horizon. From this distance, the thin spires that reached into the sky looked like the wing bones of some immense dragon, an image that sent a shiver down her spine. No, she wouldn't succumb to fear, she would swallow it. She hadn't heard much of this Miraak, but the temple's overbearing structure reeked of insecurity and poor taste.'_
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> Fear leaves wounds deeper than any blade, and humour is the greatest balm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful commissioned artwork by[@Freyaloi](http://freyaloi-portfolio.tumblr.com/post/142841952278/freyaloi-commission-for-not-quite-a-lady-thank)

Their first evening on Solstheim had been unusual to say the least. Neither Andola or himself had slept for very long considering his... _'nocturnal activities'_ , as his wife so delicately put it, followed by a dangerous glance in the direction of the circle of stones, as if they had offended her. Hmph. She wasn't the one who had been forced to hammer away at them and chant like a Greybeard! The night had left his muscles aching; After all, manual labour had never really been his forte, and he _was_ technically retired. Despite that, a quick lie down on the rented, poorly sanded bed was all that either of them could manage.

Instead they pulled on their robes and discussed their next course of action- Rumarin was to ask around about Miraak and the stone circle, and Andola was to gather supplies. It was how they generally operated, he was affable (and deceptively dumb) enough to gather information without leaving people feeling interrogated, and Andola... Well, he would never dare tell his wife how to spend her money. She was _very_ particular about anything regarding material goods.

By early afternoon he had managed to piece together the local gossip, gathered through gentle cajoling and a few well meaning yet poorly received (and they said the Altmer were dour) jokes that pointed them north east. Meanwhile, Andola had managed to gather a couple of days' worth of food and some furs to sleep with, given they had no idea how frequently they would stumble upon abandoned campsites. They were a strangely common site in Skyrim; He supposed that people just got so bored with the dreary landscape that they ran off without packing up. 

Or were eaten by bears. Whichever was more likely. 

His wife always did like to travel light, and her idea of how much food was enough for two people had been the cause of many arguments in the early days of travelling together. Andola could eat like a bird, little, light, and often, normally picked up along the way thanks to her knowledge of the native flora. He was a fan of proper, home cooked meals, three times a day, seasoned if possible with a veritable mountain of sides. But then again, Andola couldn't cook anything nice to save her life, and he was a positively fantastic chef. Rumarin was certain her meagre supplies of bread and salted meat wouldn't last a day, but he could surely convince her to hunt down a couple of wild animals, if only to stop his complaining. She had a knack for that kind of thing, and even better, they were already half roasted by the time she brought them down.

They were not 400 feet from Raven Rock before it was proven that his wife may not be suited to this new environment. Skyrim was a place where so many creatures, from the beasts to the bandits, were so accustomed to the cold that ice magic was rendered useless, and over the years his wife had honed her flames over all else. To her, ice shards were a way of slowing or torturing an opponent, to maim but never to kill. Here though, creatures were birthed and bred in the still smouldering ash that the Red Mountain vomited out on a daily basis; Fire was near useless against them. For once, Rumarin took the reins, hacking his summoned blade through the gaps in the grotesque bug's plated shell.

"Ash hoppers, I think they're called." Rumarin called over to Andola as he kicked the bloated corpse of the pest. She dipped down to one knee to examine a cut to her calf, pulling her golden hand away to reveal a thin streak of blood. With an annoyed crinkle of her nose she pressed her hand against the wound, and the soft glow that emanated told him that she would recover. She would be irked, certainly, but alright.

"Blasted little buggers..." She murmured through gritted teeth as she straightened herself up, brushing the ash from her worn black robes. Rumarin grinned to himself at her unintentional choice of words. Even in the direst of landscapes, he would find a way to entertain himself, and naturally that meant niggling at his wife. He placed his hand on her shoulder, sliding the pack off her back whilst she recuperated.

"Can't think of anything worse." He slung the bag over his own shoulder roughly, ignoring the clanging of bottles. He should probably be more gentle, but then again, his wife should have let go of her need for luxury and made do with their water skins instead of insisting on wine _('I can deal without food'_ she had said as he looked through the bag sceptically _'but I am not drinking this ash ridden slurry that they call water, no matter how many times we boil it'_ ). Her scowl lightened slightly as he spoke, catching onto his intent instantly.

"Don't you dare." to anyone else, that seemingly cold tone would be enough warning to stop, but Rumarin knew the woman, could hear the gentle lilt of amusement in her voice, and he knew that no matter how much this game annoyed her, she wasn't one to give in without a fight.

"Even though you're the one carrying on?" he grinned, pulling at his hood as he felt the wind pick up. 

"Fine."  
\------------------------------------------------------------------

They had walked in near silence for around an hour, only getting two letters deeper into the alphabet as they clambered north over the hills and dilapidated flora that dotted the southern half of the island. Soon, Solstheim began to look like Skyrim, and Andola could never have anticipated when they left just how happy she would be to see snow once again. She unwrapped the scarf that filtered the sooty wind from the bottom of her face, lowering her hood to gasp at the fresher air, tinged with the welcoming scent of pine, of home. Truly, nothing had ever smelled so sweet. The weather would undoubtedly reduce her vision, and of course it made travelling by foot more awkward than it need be, but still, it stirred in her a home sickness she never thought herself capable of having. All she wanted to do was sit in front of the hearth as Eilanil and Rumarin chased after each other with thundering footsteps, a sound sweeter to her than any bard's ditty.

To be perfectly honest, that wasn't saying much. The majority of the bards in Skyrim were simply _awful_ , you really had to go far off of the beaten path to find one who could even vaguely carry a tune.

The snow began to turn from a light flurry to a heavy fall. Through the flakes she could just about discern the imposing shadow of a structure wounding the grey horizon. From this distance, the thin spires that reached into the sky looked like the wing bones of some immense dragon, an image that sent a shiver down her spine. No, she wouldn't succumb to fear, she would swallow it. She hadn't heard much of this Miraak, but the temple's overbearing structure reeked of insecurity and poor taste. 

Yes, that would do. The shiver faded to an uncomfortable tingle.

Rumarin stood next to her, the blissfully familiar gusts of wind blowing his hood down so she could see his frown. But still, when he turned to her, it was with his slightly lopsided smile.

"In case you were wondering, no I will not build you a temple for the New Life Festival this year." He frowned again as he struggled to pull his hood up against the harsh wind. "Just been reminded why I don't like snow- can't you do anything about this weather? I definitely remember you knowing some way to clear the weather up."

It took her a little longer than it should have to form her response. They were still playing that damned game.

"Know some way to clear it up? Of course, and it was wonderful for a while, everybody loved it, no rain, no snowstorms. Until, of course, it started ruining all the crops. I wasn't going to pay reparations for all the lost profits, so I stopped using it. I haven't spoken those words in years."

"Yes, but-" he began to retort, before clamping his mouth shut. Andola cast him a wry, triumphant smile.

"You do realise you skipped over half of the alphabet there?"

Her husband gave her a good natured scowl, and the tingle faded completely. She would never admit how much she needed his presence at times like this. He was her greatest weapon against fear.

"Couldn't we just-"

"No."

"Just this once-"

"No." 

He folded his arms. She would never call her husband stroppy, but, well, Eilanil certainly didn't get it from her. 

She held out her hand to take the pack from him, pulling her hood back up. She'd indulged in the cold air enough for now. "We can't be more than half a league away, then we can rest and do some reconnaissance. Hopefully the entrance won't be too hard to find, or too heavily guarded for that matter."

"No-one ever seems to loiter around the entrance, do they? Daft idea if you ask me, surely the entrance is the first place bandits, vampires, or slightly unhinged cultists would want to keep an eye on." he handed her the pack a little more roughly than perhaps he should have, the bottles clanging quite loudly against one another. She prayed nothing had smashed. She didn't have much hope for the quality of the wine this far from home, but she was certain it would taste worse after having been wrung out from a coarse cloth bag.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Some adventurers could run from Riften to Dawnstar without stopping, over mountains and through snowdrifts. Some adventurers were too energetic for their own good. Perhaps it was a sign of his own laziness, but he could never imagine running between cities when this _'relatively easy hike'_ , as his wife had put it, was so exhausting. He wasn't quite as athletic as he had been a decade ago, when these kind of treks were a near daily occurrence, but surely Skyrim had never been this difficult to traverse?

They had finally come to the base of what he assumed to be a staircase underneath a thick blanket of snow, a sweeping, twisting path to the imposing structure, a bigger blot on the landscape than the ruins of Winterhold. A cluster of rocks lay at the side of the staircase, leaving a nook just about large enough for two slender elves to squeeze into. Considering that the weather had only grown worse as they travelled, taking shelter seemed like a good idea. Not to mention that his legs hurt from all that- and he shuddered at the thought- _exercise_.

Before he could open his mouth to complain, his wife gestured for him to sit next to her, nestling herself into the gap in the rocks. In the perfect imitation of a gentleman he lifted his cloak from his shoulders to hold over them, resting his back against the stone whilst she summoned a tiny flame for warmth that would barely put a dent in her reserves. In the early days, the thought of sitting this close to her was almost repellent; He had thought her as cold and cruel as the mountains and caves they explored. Sitting this close to her would be akin to snuggling up to a particularly testy lump of ice, surely? He'd only stayed with her because she was generous in sharing the loot and the load, and she would always foot the cost for separate rooms at any inn they stayed at. How had they grown so close? 

"Did you see the dragon bones?" The long rotted corpses that littered the steps had not escaped his attention. "Not only does he have awful taste in followers, but his decor could certainly do with a bit of work as well. I wonder what it's like inside. Y'know, I'm going to be really disappointed if it's just like every other ruin we've explored, he's tried so hard to make it look unique on the outside." His sarcastic tone broke through the storm, and with that came his wife resting her head upon his shoulder.

"As I recall, you wanted to use all those dragon bones I collected to make something for the house." Andola retorted, but he could tell with the shift of her cheek that she was smiling.

"Well, what else are you stockpiling them for? You decided after the first one that we took down that they were practically useless as an alchemy ingredient. Not sure how you decided on that but you did."

"They're valuable."

"They'd look much nicer carved into cups or candlestick holders. Something subtle, something that says _'I am the Dragonborn but I have other talents beyond shouting at things but this is just a reminder that I can shout you into little pieces if I want.'_ " He shrugged one shoulder, careful not to disturb her.

"You've never been one for carving or whittling."

"Well, of course, we'd get someone else to do the hard part. We'd just stand around and complain that this or that isn't quite right and annoy them just enough to make them hate us, but not enough to hate your gold."

"We'll think about it when we get home." She said with a misleading note of finality. A pause. "Do we know anyone particularly good at carving?"

"Brunwulf might know someone."

"Have you seen the state of the Palace? Decent man, terrible taste." she shifted as close as their thick layers of clothing would allow "No. Those kinds of frivolities are more Elisif's type of thing, now that her husband does all of the actual work. What's his name again?"

"It isn't Falk is it? Or is that just who she takes to bed?" He turned his head to rest his chin on the crown of her head, his free arm wrapping around her shoulders

"According to Nythriel. But according to her we had a scandalous night with a hagraven so I'm not putting any stock into anything she says."

"Gods, why would she say that?"

"That's her way I suppose."

"Everyone knows it was with that Dremora you managed to conjure at Winterhold."

She exhaled sharply in what he knew to be her near soundless laugh, a reaction that prompted him to chuckle slightly. A reaction that prompted his damp cloak to fall and bat against her face.

"Ah! Ru! Stop laughing, ugh!"

"Sorry." He met her eyes as he struggled to swallow another fit of laughter. "Sorry. It's just...ahhh." he shook his head. For a few moments, they settled into a comfortable silence, with nothing but the howls of the wind to fill it.

"How long until the snow passes?" He said, shaking some snow off of his side of the cloak.

"No idea."

"You know, you could just-"

"No."

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Over the years, Andola had learnt that charging in without doing a little bit of reconnaissance was a terrible idea. Gone were the days of charging into bandit camps full of bravado, flinging fireballs only to discover that she had completely misjudged them. An unexpected encounter with a coven of hagravens taught her a valuable lesson, and she bore a burn scar on her rib as a reminder of the consequences of rashness. _'Look, listen, learn'_ had been her mantra for years, and it was a philosophy her husband appreciated.

After all, the last thing he wanted was to end up dead.

It was sundown by the time the snow began to lighten, and the dying light cast a pinkish hue over the white blanketed landscape. Strong black lines against the watercolour sky; The temple looked queerly beautiful. But she couldn't afford to be distracted by the romantic scenery, they weren't here because they had tired of Skyrim's wonders. No, she had to observe, she had to learn, and then she had to execute.

The sound of hammering echoed over the dying wind, indicating that there were definitely people on the outside of the structure. Next came gauging their awareness- were they willing, or were they enchanted? The low droning of a chant implied that they were bewitched, as Rumarin had been. But she couldn't rely on sound alone to gauge the nature of their thrall. They could be mere cheap labour, but they could also be acting as an alarm if their work was disturbed. No. She would have to get closer. Silently, she signalled to her partner to stay at the base of the stairwell as she forced her form to become translucent, before willing it to fade from view completely. Everybody was so quick to dismiss illusion as the tool of thieves and cowards, failing to acknowledge how useful it could really be. 

With light footsteps, she crept to the top of the splayed staircase, as wide and grandiose as any she had seen in Skyrim. Upon reaching the top her first course of action was to replenish her invisibility- the low hum of the spell would allow her to determine the level of awareness the entranced workers posessed. If the one nearest to her reacted, that would indicate that they were playing the guard dog; If not, then she should be safe to reveal herself. If she could drop the illusion before they reached the temple's inner sanctum then she would be able to conserve valuable magicka for the inevitable fighting. It was highly doubtful that they would be able to run through the temple unaccosted. 

She waited a few moments, looking for any reaction from those workers nearest to her, a pause in their rhythmic hammering or a tilt of the head. Instead, she found herself reassured by the low, uninterrupted chanting, the monotonous beating of tools against stone. She took a moment to observe those who had been ensnared. Around half of them were elves, one or two in the bone-carved armour of the Raven Rock guards, but the majority in a crude combination of leather, rusted iron, and steel. Bandits most likely- or what was it they were called here? Reavers? The other half were relatively uniform, hulking nordic figures wrapped in thick, heavy furs who seemed accustomed to this sort of labour. Despite the difference in tones and accent, their voices seemed to swim through the air in harmony, united in an almost hypnotic manner.

It was peaceful. It made her feel lighter somehow, filled her with the overwhelming desire to please Mir-

She retained just enough willpower to pinch and twist the skin on the back of her hand, falling out of the stupor almost instantly. No. She would not allow herself to be _degraded_ in such a manner, labouring under the spell of the evil...thing who tried to orchestrate the kidnapping of their daughter, who tried to _'cleanse'_ the earth of her existence. Amber eyes swept over the crater that the temple collapsed into, over all the poor cursed fools. One of the figures down there was not quite like the others, in fact, she seemed completely immune to the hypnotic pull of the chant. Her panicked, shrill tone broke through the choir of voices, jabbing holes through the hymn like a spear. 

Although it seemed like they could be united against a similar enemy, she couldn't be too certain. A quick glance to her hip showed that she was armed with an axe that seemed light enough that it could be used as a well-aimed range weapon. Her own position on the precipice of the crater was probably the safest for now, it would be prudent for them to keep a fair distance, and a bit of height, between them. A trickle of warmth overcame her like a wash of spring water as her invisibility lifted. To her relief, the nordic woman was too wrapped up in awakening her friends from their stupor to notice. She summoned a small ball of light and cast it down the stairs, the agreed upon signal for her husband to come join her.

"Drop your weapon." Andola called out to the woman, keeping her expression completely neutral, allowing her features to be illuminated by the cruel light of the crackling flames she held in her hand. At her side, her husband had summoned his ghostly bow and knocked an arrow, trained on their target. Better to disarm her, then they would talk with her.

The woman looked at them standing over her, teetering on the edge of the carved stone ditch. She noted the woman's brow creased in shock before it settled into a defeated scowl as she drew her axe from her hip and knelt to place it on the ground... 

Andola considered her reaction times to be fairly quick, but Rumarin loosed his arrow before she could cast her fireball, hitting the cultist in the shoulder and forcing him to move backwards in pain. The woman looked outraged as she heard the arrow whistle over her head, but the pained grunt of the cultist alerted her to the imminent threat. As he stumbled backwards, she swept the axe up from the floor and twisted her body, the momentum of the diagonal arc forcing the axe through his torso, only to be stopped by his spine. She yanked it from his body with some effort, pulling on the weapon's hilt with a few sharp tugs. The ice her weapon seemed to be carved from was stained a burning red. 

Of course, cultists never travelled alone. They always came in packs, like particularly zealous skeevers.

From this distance, and with the presence of a potential ally down there, she was wary of the collateral damage fire-based magic could cause. Instead, she focused on conjuring a spear of crackling energy, a spell that sent an uncomfortable shock shooting up her forearms. She took aim and propelled it forwards, striking the second cultist, this one female, in the centre of her chest. Her target stopped in her tracks, jerking and writhing as the lightning coursed through her body, searing her skin underneath the robes and sapping away her power. She dropped, a smoking mockery of a creature. Any form of magic was a truly awful way to die, she would rather die by the blade than by a curse. She spied one more cultist emerging from the curved stairwell, hidden behind the pillar but so did the Nord. The woman leapt upon him with an animalistic grace, driving her axe into the mass of meat, bone, and sinew that made up his neck. The force of the blow almost completely decapitated him, his head only held in place by an inch of skin and tendons. 

The Nord yanked the axe from his flesh, staining her furs, breathing heavily as she listened for any more assailants. She must have determined that they had eliminated the threat, as she looked back to Rumarin and Andola. Her husband cast the warrior a positively charming smile. 

"Well, looks like we're all in this together." he said with what she knew to be false cheer, nudging her towards the staircase, down into the depths of the crater "I'm Rumarin, and this is Andola, I'm guessing you have a slight issue with these... idiots as well?"

The woman sneered, though when she looked upon her fellow Nords her expression melted with the speed of snow in the sunlight. "Look at what they've done to my friends," she glanced to the centrepiece of the temple, a rough-hewn pillar not dissimilar to the one on the outskirts of Raven Rock. "look at the foul magic that has ensnared the very bones of this land." her gaze returned to the two elves, her eyes hard once more "I am Frea, of the Skaal. And aye, I suppose you could say I have a 'slight issue' with these beasts." Her thin lips twisted into a cruel mockery of a smile that almost sent a chill down her spine.

Three people against a cult.

What could _possibly_ go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough few months for me, very sorry about the delay! Hoping to be a little more regular with updates!

**Author's Note:**

> How to Procrastinate 101- Write a banana elf fanfic. 
> 
> Thank you to Pinkwolpertinger on Tumblr for being my Beta Reader, despite having never played Interesting NPCs that she should definitely check out because it's probably the best mod available for Skyrim. No bias. Definitely no bias here.
> 
> If anyone else wants to volunteer to beta, please, feel free.
> 
> CC welcome and encouraged!


End file.
